


Out of Reach

by calrissian18



Series: The Cages We Build [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Viktor learns the true worth of the word 'champion.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Reach

**Author's Note:**

> I've fallen totally in love with Viktor Krum in writing this and it lead me to write a sequel: [Missing the Train](http://archiveofourown.org/works/577843).
> 
> This story has been translated into Thai by llehk9 [here](http://llehk9.exteen.com/20131203/harry-potter-fiction-translate-out-of-reach). How freaking neat-o is that? *g*

His mother leaned back in the yellowing chair, the smell of her clove cigarettes a worn comfort. The Slovenian city lights painted her in a harsher contrast than Bulgaria’s, made her look older, thinner. “Fortune is made of glass, Viktor,” she had said in a thin voice as she laughed aloud. “That vas your father’s favorite saying, did you know?” She tutted, perhaps realizing that she had told this to Viktor a handful of times over the years.  
  
“Vot vould he say, do you think, if he could see us now?” She had smiled a crinkled smile that made the lines next to her eyes deepen and Viktor had indulged her with a grin of his own.

* * *

He watched discreetly as the calm and academic girl he had escorted to the ball grew redder and redder in the face the longer she carried on her biting disagreement with her freckle-faced friend. The words were lost, not ringing enough to rival the noise clanging from the stage, though Viktor found he didn’t care much for what they might be regardless.

He winced as the singer began caterwauling once again. He found this language – especially when bellowed – rather ugly and impotent. His own awkwardness at relaying his thoughts and embarrassment over his heavy accent as he clipped words, mispronounced terms, and garbled the grammar made him feel like an incapable child when he spoke it himself. This English had none of the straightforwardness or brash compulsion of his teammate’s Bulgarian, nor even the soft effectiveness of his mother’s native Romanian.

He remained a tactful distance away near the punch table as the girl with the name he could not wrap his tongue around reached her crescendo and rose from her seat, blushing furiously and angry enough to spit, before storming out of the hall. He watched her with dispirited dark eyes and doubts over exactly how close she and the boy in the fraying dress were.

Two attractive and giggly girls that would have paid him no mind had he not been an international Quidditch star walked past, the one on the closer end winking. He did his best not to recoil from them but could not help his scowl. Hermy-own-ninny had been a welcome alternative to the star-struck masses as she had not seemed awed by his celebrity in the least, likely due to her friendship with Harry Potter.

He was well aware that with his dark brows, large nose, and seemingly surly disposition he was not striking enough to garner the attention he received nor did he have a firm grasp on why talent and fame seemed to increase desirability. It was not something he could imagine anyone wanting to be revered for – the fact that they were indeed revered. Seemed circular and superficial. Admiration he could understand, to an extent, but being _wanted_ – that concept failed him.

As the giggling girls began to grow bolder, Viktor resolved himself to look for, and perhaps try to comfort, his date when the blond boy he recognized from the welcoming feast pushed a path between them with a snarl and forced his way over to the table.

Viktor watched him with guarded curiosity as he picked up one of the plastic cups, tossed it back without looking at it, and stared at something across the hall. His eyes were narrowed and beady and the expression on his face was pinched and furious, making him look unattractive and haughty, not at all how Viktor remembered him.

The girls he had elbowed aside looked at him in disgust and strutted off with their noses in the air. The blond boy sneered after them but, other than that, did not comment, nor did he seem to realize whom he was standing next to.

Viktor eyed him in fascination for a moment and thought about complimenting him on how nicely his sleek and tailored robes fitted him but decided against it. Instead, he asked harmlessly, “Are you enjoying this ball?”

The boy turned and glared at him, sizing him up. Viktor imagined how they must have looked, two surly boys glaring at one another. “Don’t you have a rather frizzy date to attend to?” the boy said mockingly.

“Hermy-own-ninny?” Viktor confirmed, adding, “She is fine vithout me. Vhere is your date?” He glanced around the room with purpose.

The boy shrugged and plucked up another of the plastic cups and chugged it. “Hell if I know,” he tossed out carelessly.

Viktor turned on him in surprise. “You do not care?”

The boy smiled grimly. “Can’t say that I do.”

Viktor nodded for lack of a better response and they stood in silence for a moment, the blond boy still staring off at some unknown subject with a quarrelsome expression. Viktor tapped his own cup before he finally turned to his silent companion and inquired, “Vould you care to dance?”

The blond boy rounded on him in disgust. “Last I checked we were both men.”

“Men cannot dance together?” Viktor asked with a curiously raised eyebrow.

“Got it in one,” the boy said with cold superiority. “I don’t know what you get up to, being isolated as you are, but here, in civilized society, it’s considered far more than inappropriate.”

Viktor could not help but be amused. “You talk so seriously,” he said with an unsuccessfully repressed grin.

“I’ve been known to,” the boy conceded, his full attention once again focused elsewhere.

“Do you alvays haff a smart comment on your tongue?” Viktor wondered aloud.

“Haven’t I so far?” the boy retorted churlishly. “I’ll let you decide if it’s a recurring theme.”

Viktor watched him with a muted smile, finding the fact that this boy was so contrary endearing rather than insufferable, though he had always been a bit of a fool for svelte creatures with light skin. His eyes crinkled in amusement as he prodded, “You vill not dance vith me?”

The boy scoffed. “Surprisingly, my answer hasn’t changed in these last few moments,” he shot back with a distracted air.

Viktor frowned at not being able to command the boy’s attention. “You know me, I am thinking,” he said finally. “But vot is your name?”

The boy looked at him for a moment, indecisive, before a cruel smirk curled his lips. “You know, I have a rather insistent dislike for celebrities. I don’t think there will be any need for you to look me up.”

* * *

Viktor was a stranger in a strange land. No one here spoke his language and those who did try to engage him rambled on too quickly for him to grasp all of what was being said, the words running together with no end in sight. And the castle itself, while beautiful and stocked with incredible treasures, was filled with rampant magic that rubbed counter to his own. He simply was not used to such ostentatious majesty, nor could he understand how students were meant to learn here.

Soon his skin was rubbed raw from the faint vibration of magic worming its way under his robes and his head tolled with the odd clucks being tossed out at him. It wasn’t until he took to swimming in the lake – the only aspect of the castle that he found to his taste – that he thought he might have found a slice of home.

It reminded him of jumping into the loch in the Zlatnan backwoods while his mother looked on, her hair radiant in the sunlight and her skirt flowering as she twirled and sang, “Melc, melc codobelc, tu te duci la baltă. Åži bei apă caldă, tu te duci la Dunăre. Åži bei apă tulbure.”

His father had passed away shortly before he was born of the same diseased blood that ran through his own veins and, though he had grown up poor in a tiny village in Romania without many other children to play with, his mother had ensured that he never wanted for anything. Though he had known nothing of castles such as this or any such flourishing magic.

When he was seven, he and his mother were forced to flee their native Romania to escape the then Ukrainian ambassador who had seen it as his duty to pick up the reins of Grindelwald’s dismantled regime. His mother, Anca, later told him, wielding her sharp tongue with a fiery passion, that had she not had him to think of she would have fought the occupation and likely died at the hands of her own convictions.

He could still remember the pride he had felt when she had declared as much. His mother: the aggressor, the defiant gypsy, the strongest woman he had ever known. Looking back on it now, she seemed reckless and impulsive, almost as if she had a death wish.

At eleven he was accepted to Durmstrang and for years he battled a fierce homesickness. He was not used to such vast quarters and had never had any friends his own age so he was at a loss as to how to relate to any of them. Before long his peers had labeled him as ‘aloof’, ‘cross’, and ‘a loner’. He wasn’t sure he would have changed their minds even if he’d known how.

He couldn’t seem to communicate that he was simply shy nor did he know how to act to prove that out. He had never felt more alone than he did in those first three years. And then came Quidditch. He had been mocked mercilessly by the older students for trying out as he hadn’t shown a modicum of talent for anything since he’d arrived, but after only those first few moments on a broom he had wiped the smiles right off their faces.

For the first time in his life, he was good at something. No, beyond good, he was _talented_. With the introduction of Quidditch came a wealth of unexpected gifts and when he was signed at sixteen to the Vratsa Vultures he felt an unfamiliar sense of security. Professional Quidditch gave him things he had never been able to boast of before – chief among them money, and with that came a permanent home and safety, as well as, unexpectedly, friends and popularity. He was no longer seen as an outcast and people actually seemed interested in what he had to say.

His happiness lasted a year, in which he and his mother reveled in all the spoils that his new career offered. When he looked back on that time what stood out most prominently was her free and unrestrained laughter. There had been more laughs, more smiles, and more warmth in her eyes in that last year than there had been in their entire lives. And then, one night while touring in Slovenia, she had gone down to the corner store for crackers to settle Viktor’s stomach and never come back.

He had found her twenty frantic minutes later in an alley, her eyes open and empty.

Hours later he finally returned to the hotel room they had rented and found her wand lying innocuously on her bedside table. It was surprisingly satisfying to hear the _crack_ as he snapped it in half, like music to soothe a savage beast.

Viktor resurfaced from the depths of the lake with a deprived gasp, watching as one of the large squid’s tentacles curled artfully around a cluster of waving seaweed. He swam to shore with ease, only slightly out of breath when he reached his towel and still riding the high of the exercise. His good mood dissolved when he saw who was waiting for him however. He scowled as he dried off and his companion stepped out from under the shelter of his tree and eyed him with a closed off expression.

“I saw you speaking to the blond boy at the ball, the one your eyes settled on at the feast and would not budge from.” Viktor ignored him, refusing to acknowledge his friend or the truth of his words. “I know your weakness for pale skin and blue eyes,” Anatolie continued while he pretended to study his nails.

Viktor’s neck craned around with a snap, his mind flashing to the pretty, Norwegian barmaid and Anatolie’s desperate instructions to run, just run and not look back. He shook those thoughts from him and glared at Anatolie coldly, just barely holding his tongue to keep from correcting the darker boy that the blond’s eyes were grey, not blue. No need to prove Anatolie’s point for him.

Anatolie took a step forward until he was standing directly in front of Viktor and snorted dismissively. “Do not waste your time on him, Căutător.” Viktor shook his head knowingly, seeing through Anatolie’s thin attempt to endear his words by tacking on the Romanian term. “I have seen him, he has eyes only for your competition.”

Viktor’s head snapped up. “Vich?” he demanded in his harsh voice before he had time to think better of it. His thoughts went back to the boy’s distraction in the ballroom. The Veela girl, he was sure of it, and he felt his heart sink as the realization centered.

Anatolie’s lip raised condescendingly. “I will do you the favor of sparing you an answer, prieten.”

“You are not my keeper, Anatolie,” Viktor growled warningly.

Anatolie backed away with disgust and turned on his heel. Viktor’s fist clenched and the sleek-haired youth whirled around as if he’d sensed danger and spat, “The younger, England’s Harry Potter.” Viktor felt as if he was floundering on dry land and Anatolie looked on him with pity. “You cannot compete with their golden calf, Viktor.”

* * *

Viktor found him in a far corner of the library that was sandwiched between two overstocked shelves, the blond boy from the ball and the feast, his head bent over a book. Draco, he had learned later. Or dragă as his mind was wont to call him, he only hoped he wouldn’t say as much out loud.

He settled himself across from the boy and he looked up at Viktor with an impatient scowl. “Did you see? I am tied for the first place,” he said proudly. Anatolie proven wrong already, he _could_ compete with Harry Potter.

The boy’s eyes dropped back to his book. “Yes, very impressive,” he said dryly, his tone dismissive.

Viktor frowned. “You do not sound impressed.”

Draco scoffed and belittled his success in only a few well-chosen words. “Potter outshone you easily, and in your own profession.”

The mention of the other boy was like a slice in his flesh and Viktor sat back in his chair heavily, spitting petulantly, “You are impressed vith him then?”

The other boy’s eyes went cold and he dropped his book into his bag as he stood. “Potter is always impressive; it is one of the many things I loathe about him.”

Viktor watched his retreat in confused disbelief. It was at that moment that he heard a burst of guffawing laughter from the other side of one of the bookshelves. Viktor shifted his position to where Draco had previously been sitting and saw a handful of the books had been moved so that he had a perfectly unobstructed view of Harry Potter and his two friends as they studied, the redhead laughing while Hermy-own-ninny and Potter played the part of indulgent audience.

Anatolie had been right then. He had eyes for another.

* * *

“You look very sad today,” Viktor said softly as he took the seat next to Draco in the main hall, his celebrity moving the other students down the bench without him having to speak a word.

Draco pushed his food around his plate listlessly but his voice held its usual bite as he retorted, “You’re still alive and kicking.”

Viktor couldn’t help but grin. “Your tongue is very sharp. Vere I a veaker man perhaps I might be cut.”

Draco turned to eye him questioningly. He stabbed into his potatoes distractedly. “You seem to have a rather firm fascination with my tongue.”

Viktor leaned closer to the lithe body at his left and let his breath gust over Draco’s ear as he whispered huskily, “I think I do not know it vell enough to judge that.”

Draco, whose gaze had shifted across the table, started and glared at him in disbelief. “Nor will you,” he said with obnoxious certainty.

He glanced away, drawing further in on himself, and Viktor followed his stare, knowing he’d regret it. Harry Potter smiled at Hermy-own-ninny as the girl’s hands narrated her words with lightning speed. Viktor masked his disappointment and envy with anger. His hands tightened into fists and his voice positively shook with repressed fury. “You are so eager to be avay from me?” He jerked his head in Potter’s direction. “It is him you haff eyes for?”

Draco’s head whipped up, his gaze searching out Viktor’s even as it hardened, something like panic and fear swarming in it before his eyes went cold and hollow. He turned away and informed him coolly, “I have eyes for no man.”

* * *

The common room that belonged to the Slytherins was dank and lit only by natural light, which left the walls constantly flickering and gave the illusion of them closing in. Viktor wondered how they stood it, living in a dungeon, which, to his mind, was just a shade too close to a prison.

He supposed they must drink a lot of pilfered Butterbeer, something he had never had before he’d come to Hogwarts and that he found very much to his liking. His own glass was something like liquid bliss and it was the only thing that was keeping him in his seat as Anatolie and Calin threw him dark looks from the corner, their heads bent together.

Viktor’s irritation was also helpfully staunched by his view. He watched in quiet hunger as Draco placed a stone atop a large pile that seemed to explode every so often while his two large friends awaited their turns.

Draco’s eyes were bright and his lips were curved in a teasing smile. He was wearing only his robe’s undershirt, which was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and trousers that looked pleasingly soft to the touch. His hair was loose and the flickering firelight gave it the illusion of spun gold.

Viktor was so lost in his contemplation of him that he did not realize he had company until it plopped down on either side of him. The dark-skinned boy at his right raised a bottle to his lips before shooting a cautious glance at the other two Durmstrang boys conversing lowly in the corner. Foam clung to his lower lip as he informed him, “Your friends are right to worry for you.” Viktor’s eyes narrowed and the boy hung his head in sympathetic desolation. “Draco’s – he’s unattainable.”

On his left, a feminine hand patted his arm. He rounded on the girl. She was not the prettiest thing he’d ever seen but she had large breasts, a tiny waist, and legs that brought to mind being buried between them. She bit her lip and glanced away towards Draco.

Viktor and the other boy followed her gaze until the dark boy drew his attention back by warning with cringing honesty, “You’re wasting your time on a boy that’s been branded for Harry Potter since he was eleven, whether he’ll have him or not.”

Viktor’s mouth turned down as he watched Draco. “I can outvait his passion,” he replied stubbornly.

The girl placed a consoling hand on his knee and frowned thoughtfully, her eyes bright with understanding. “That’s assuming it will ever fade.”

* * *

Viktor ignored the prying advice that pressed in on all sides, likely to his own detriment, and suppressed his desire to harm Harry Potter as they completed their tasks. It was not his fault that Draco panted after him, though he was horribly oblivious not to notice it. And, as the weeks wore on, he spent more and more time in Draco’s company and less time on the ship, trying to endear himself to the stony boy.

He found that he quite liked the language here when presented with someone who spoke it so expertly. He reveled in the way Draco twisted his words to suggest other things and the way his lilting voice and intonation could often hide what he truly meant.

He was growing fonder of the castle as well as, while there were always students near, there were also many more secret places to be alone. Even the dungeons had grown in his estimation as while they were cold and dark, they held the brightest spot in the whole castle.

And while there were moments when his heart was buoyed, expressly those moments when he managed to chip the ice behind Draco’s cold grey eyes and the boy would look upon him with true fondness, he couldn’t help but feel lesser in Draco’s estimation. It was not Draco’s inherent grace on the ground which reminded him of how awkward and duck-footed he was, nor was it the way that Draco crafted the English language that reminded him how clumsily he stumbled over it or how ridiculous his accent made it sound, it was that his eyes forever strayed.

He had never felt so inferior and insignificant as he did in those moments when Draco’s eyes would wander away to meet another’s.

Viktor had thought to tell the boy that there was nothing that Harry Potter had that he did not – money, celebrity, the title of ‘champion’. There was nothing Potter could offer him that Viktor could not. But the words always died on his tongue.

He often wondered what Draco saw when he looked at him. He could only be sure that a boy with such aristocratic and elegant features would never be able to look past his sallow skin, overlarge forehead, bushy eyebrows, or hooked nose and see him as anything more than a means to an end.

He was still frowning over this line of thought when he met Draco down by the lake. Neither of them spoke as they fell into step beside one another and walked peacefully along the water’s edge.

They had reached a dense copse of trees when Viktor finally paused in his meandering and announced with certainty, “You do not like me much, I am thinking.” He studied Draco as the boy broke out from under their cover and glanced a rock across the lake’s still surface.

He paid no attention to its progression as he took to jumping from stone to stone with precarious balance, his arms out at his sides, and his lips pinched together as if in thought. “Your thinking is flawed,” he responded finally.

Draco continued his walk across the stones that sat at the lake’s shore while Viktor watched him inscrutably. The light of the night’s stars was bright and while the water threw odd shadows across their faces, Viktor caught every nuance of Draco’s movements.

He lowered his eyes to the spreading ripples, his voice hollow and roughened. “I see it in your eyes, you think I am slow, oafish, ugly,” he whispered the last. He knew what Draco must think of him and he would not make the boy humor him any longer. He couldn’t help but add, “Untalented,” as even his skill at Quidditch had not seemed to sway him.

The boy stopped moving, his brow furrowed, and turned to face him. “Then you aren’t looking in the right places,” he stated cleanly, his eyes searching out Viktor’s as if entreating him to look again.

Viktor glanced away. “I do not need the comfort of your lies.” Though, in truth, he did.

Draco stepped closer to him and reached up to place a hand on Viktor’s pallid cheek. He did not speak again until he held Viktor’s gaze. “And I would never offer you any. I do not cushion blows nor will I fabricate truths to protect another’s feelings.” There was no guile in his words and Viktor knew he could take them for truth. “When I say I like you it’s because I do and for no other reason.”

Viktor started in surprise. Draco had never said those words and he had longed to hear anything even marginally close, though he doubted he would have believed them had they come. “I am nothing like you,” he admitted.

The boy surprised them both with a barking laugh. He moved away and stared out at the opposite end of the lake. “That’s _why_ I like you,” he affirmed pointedly, his shoulders hunched as he said the words Viktor had yearned to hear. “You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met. You’re painfully honest and refreshingly blunt. You say what you feel and you don’t tiptoe around with subtleties or hidden meanings and I find that unspeakably brave. I wish I were capable of the same,” he said longingly.

Viktor had moved closer to him during his speech, his stomach tight and his heart feeling as if it’d been scraped almost raw. He had never imagined Draco might admire him, let alone think he had value on his own. Draco turned to him with a genuine smile, their faces much closer than before. “You, Viktor Krum,” he revealed slowly, “are one of the most worthwhile people I’ve ever met.”

Viktor’s heart clenched, hard, and his hand reached out and found Draco’s. It was one of the most rewarding moments of his life when the other boy’s cool fingers curled around his.

* * *

The mood that permeated the extravagant castle’s walls was somber and infectious when it was time for Viktor to take his leave. It dissipated instantly however when he saw who was waiting for him in the entranceway. He broke away from the others to meet Draco at the foot of the stone steps opposite him, the other students respectfully keeping their distance as he bid him farewell, though Anatolie watched him with a scowl.

His heart swelled when he finally reached him and Draco offered him a soft smile before glancing away. Viktor mistook it for reticence before he followed his line of sight to a very morose Potter who sat at one of the House tables, his head hung low.

Viktor clenched his jaw as the swell in his heart rocketed up to his throat. “I am sorry for your champion. Both of them,” he spat through gritted teeth. The other boy did not appear at all ashamed of being caught and looked up at him, his eyes blank and open. “Perhaps ve vill see each other again?” Viktor tried. Draco’s gaze shifted again and Viktor fought the urge to sob as tears stung his eyes. “Or perhaps you do not vant to see me at all?” he spat.

The boy didn’t even bother to look at him and Viktor’s hand shot out and hauled the boy’s chin around. “I vould be happy to see you again, Draco Malfoy,” he near growled, his eyes burning with intensity.

He dropped the boy’s shocked gaze and strode across the hall, cursing himself for a fool. The others followed him out, Viktor noting from the corner of his eye the smug look on Anatolie’s face. He stood outside the ship as he waved the other boys on, counting, as he had become some kind of surrogate Headmaster since Karkaroff’s disappearance.

He tossed a single glance over his shoulder at the glorious castle before he started up the plank. A hand caught his shoulder and he spun around to find Draco staring at him enigmatically. “Drac—”

Warm lips pressed against his own and Viktor’s hands whipped around Draco without thought even as his eyes flew closed. He pulled the boy closer until Draco was standing on tiptoe, his tongue sliding into Viktor’s mouth, a warm and welcome weight. There was something about the bitter twist of his lips and the curve of his smile that made Viktor want to imprint this moment in his memory forever.

He did not see how he would ever be able to let go as this kiss was the most sincere and powerful he had ever known. It was, predictably, Draco who withdrew first. His eyes were fever-bright and he licked his lower lip quickly as he turned his head away diffidently. “I hear the winter is brutal, thought I’d give you a warm memory,” he said, trying for unaffected.

Viktor reached for the boy’s wrist before he could contemplate moving away and said roughly, his throat tight, “That memory is enough to fend off the Dementors.” He tilted Draco’s chin up until their eyes met and intoned warmly, “I think I vill be seeing much more of you, Draco.”

* * *

Days faded into months, which in turn blurred into years, and few memories remained as sharp as the crimson on his mother’s blouse and the emptiness of her eyes. Yet, as the steady beat of time marched ever onward, Viktor found the easiest way to drown his visions of corpses was to remember the white of Draco’s teeth, the curve of the knot in his throat, and the press of his hands as they’d kissed. As the clock ticked away meaningless moments, those memories of Draco only burned brighter as everything else dulled.

So when he was offered his first opportunity to return to England for Fleur Delacour’s wedding, he found himself packing before he’d even finished the letter, much to Anatolie’s disgust.

“It is a courtesy, Viktor. She does not actually expect you to go.” Anatolie’s mouth twisted in a bitter frown as he poked his head into Viktor’s room and, for a moment, Viktor felt a pang of regret that Anatolie had been with him when he’d received the invitation. He did not need the envy of his friend to ground him during one of the few opportunities he’d had to soar.

He moved around his meager one-bedroom apartment, tossing things into his suitcase as Anatolie watched him with removed scorn. “Your iubito will not be there.”

Viktor ignored him except to say, “I vill find him aftervards.”

Anatolie’s lips thinned in disapproval. “You do not even know if he wants to be found. It is possible that he has already bedded their savior while you whither away over a long-forgotten kiss.”

He had gone too far and the other boy knew it as Viktor rounded on him, his eyes blazing and angry enough to bite. He backed Anatolie against the wall, forearm over his windpipe, and hissed into his face, “He remembers.” It was not a button Anatolie had pushed often over the years, having learned his lesson, but he knew the devastation it could cause when prodded.

The other boy cowered slightly before raising his chin defiantly and hissing as a parting shot, “You hope,” before slipping around the corner and out the door.

Which was lucky because Viktor might have genuinely killed him.

Fleur’s wedding was unspectacular long before the attack and it only offered Viktor more opportunities to think about the boy who held everything he craved in the palm of his hand, however blind he was to it. He stayed close to the wine trays and told himself that three years could have provided a wealth of change. Perhaps Draco Malfoy no longer revered that scrawny child as his soul mate.

When Death Eaters broke the barrier he slipped away after the pink-haired woman and, after much frustration and impatient arguing, he wheedled a Wiltshire address out of her. Feeling thoroughly ruffled and harassed, he finally made it to the gates of the impressive manor just as a man hurried down the path. Viktor watched him guardedly, feeling light-headed as the man’s dark eyes bored into him.

He was nearly past him when the man grabbed his arm and hissed, “Fool.”

Viktor’s eyes narrowed when he finally recognized the man as one of the teachers at Draco’s school. “I vant to see Draco,” he responded defiantly.

The man simply kept walking him further away and Viktor wasn’t imprudent enough to argue as the man’s stare could freeze fire. The greasy-haired bat dragged him into an alley and the next moment they were on an entirely different street, this one dour and crammed with uniform and slanted little houses.

“Obviously,” he finally growled as he loped down the road, keeping close to the shadows of the buildings.

“Mind magic,” Viktor said resentfully after a moment. “Are you taking me to him?” he asked, the question unable to be contained any longer.

The man bared his teeth. “No.” Viktor looked at him in surprise and the man’s eyes closed exasperatedly. “Your idiotic mission nearly led you straight into the Dark Lord’s arms.”

“He vas—”

“Yes.” The man stopped walking and whirled on him, his cloak whipping about with finality while he bore down on him like a large bird of prey. “Go where you will,” he instructed coldly.

“I vant—”

The man’s nostrils flared and he spat out a caustic, “You will get him killed.”

Viktor froze in his protestations at the sharp, painful words.

The other man seemed to realize he had gotten through and the tense line of his shoulders relaxed slightly. He stared at Viktor’s downtrodden expression for a moment before he informed him apprehensively, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to part with the information, “I wouldn’t give up on him entirely. I imagine he will need you very soon.”

* * *

Viktor stared into the chamber with a cold fury twisting his guts while Anatolie performed the symbol of the cross over his chest and bowed his head. Viktor turned and slammed his fist into the collapsing wall, wood and plaster sprinkling down from the ceiling. The darker man pulled him away, speaking lowly. “This is no holy place any longer,” he condemned.

Viktor nodded, his face pale but determined as they stole out of the monastery.

“They took them here to be slaughtered,” Anatolie said with callousness, but then he had never felt things as intensely as Viktor. Only he could look into the faces of some twenty dead children and appear unaffected. “Grigoroiu told us our chances. You mustn’t blame yourself, Viktor.”

“I do not,” he bit out, ventilating air through clenched teeth to cure his nausea. He eyed his unmoved companion shrewdly. “Vy did you come, Anatolie? You haff never cared for children or for death.”

Dusk was settling over Polotsk, giving Anatolie’s silhouette an eerie orange glow as the man shrugged and offered, “Bulgaria has little to tempt me with now. Grigoroiu encouraged me to flee it.”

“The headmaster does not expect you back,” Viktor clarified in surprise. His respect for the man designated him the title of ‘headmaster’ even though he had never been Viktor’s. Karkaroff’s replacement, a man of intelligence and strategy that Viktor regarded with genuine esteem, had not mentioned a word of this before they’d left for Belarus.

Durmstrang being one of the last strongholds left in Eastern Europe, a handful of students, including Anatolie and himself, had decided to stay on at the school and help in whatever ways they could be utilized.

Anatolie’s features were shadowed. “We have done all we can here, Viktor. It is time for us to take our leave.”

Viktor recognized the dismissal and decided not to fight it, only giving Anatolie a resolute glance before they withdrew their wands and stalked into the plaza. Not a soul moved in the once-bustling square and as they moved toward the center, unlit windows and great stone monstrosities meeting their wandering gazes, a squealing siren whined into life and a recording blared over the empty piazza from what looked like a towering minaret:

  
_“Plošča začynieny. Abaviazkovaje kamiendanckuju hadzinu ŭ ciapierašni čas u silie. Usie parušaĺniki buduć padviarhacca Ministerstva pa vyšuku i zatrymanniu.”_

  
Anatolie waited until an alcove offered them cover to whisper with almost tame curiosity, “What do they say, Viktor?”

“They say ve should leave, Anatolie,” Viktor hissed with impatience while Anatolie’s expression remained unchanged, waiting. Viktor sighed wearily and screwed up his face as he listened, his Belarusian more than a little rusty. After the loop had repeated itself a third time he was confident he understood the message. “It says the plaza is closed and curfew is in effect. Those found out after curfew being arrested.”

Anatolie’s eyebrows rose slightly at that but he said no more and simply stole out of the tight alleyway, secure that Viktor would follow. Which he did. They had finally reached their Apparition point as they exited the uncannily still town when Anatolie veered off down a side street.

Viktor stared after him in disbelief for a moment before starting into action and hurrying after him. He grabbed the insolent man by the elbow and warned, “Anatolie, it is not safe. Grigoroiu begged us not linger.”

Anatolie shook him off, his features hard. “You do what you will, prieten,” he spat back with a finality that begged a choice, that asked if Viktor was with him or against him.

“Anatolie!” Viktor called after him as the strong-willed man stalked further down the road. He grabbed him by both arms and pinned him against the alley wall, his eyes demanding an explanation. Anatolie fought him off, jamming his elbow into Viktor’s jaw with force.

Viktor regained himself, his chin throbbing, and pulled his fist back to smash across Anatolie’s mouth. Anatolie fell back, his lower lip bleeding, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth while Viktor kept his fist raised, unwilling to be caught off guard again.

Anatolie glanced away, anger and humiliation in his eyes, before he looked back and Viktor saw the ice in his gaze crumble and melt. The abrupt shift left Viktor feeling as if he were standing on a precipice while Anatolie stared at him with open vulnerability, his lip shaking. “Dimitry is with them,” he breathed finally.

Viktor backed away unconsciously in shock. “Your brother.” Suddenly it was very clear exactly why Anatolie had volunteered for this trip.

Anatolie nodded disconsolately. “Băiat prost,” he spat harshly, the sheen over his eyes wavering slightly. “Trying to prove himself to our father, he joined up like a fool. I should leave him to his fate,” he said, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

His teeth tore into his lower lip and the tears were banished in the face of his pain. His voice was unfeeling and collected when he commanded, “Go back, Viktor, and keep your mouth shut.” He pushed off the wall and crept back down the alleyway. It didn’t take him long to realize that he was not alone. “Viktor!” he berated, breaking the silence.

Viktor shook his head, squeezed Anatolie’s shoulder, and ordered, “Go.”

Anatolie gave him a look of such gratitude that Viktor could almost feel his appreciation. Months of dingy hotel rooms, not enough food, and near constant silence were what awaited them as they followed the Death Eaters across the greater part of Europe. They had only glimpsed Anatolie’s brother twice but those chance viewings had been enough to destabilize Viktor’s unflappable companion.

It wasn’t until they Apparated into Jesenice that they finally caught up with Dimitry. Anatolie fell to his knees while Viktor placed a forcibly steady hand on his shoulder. “Anatolie—”

Anatolie shook his head to stay him, staring into his dead brother’s vacant eyes as they gazed unblinkingly up at the heavens. His body lay broken and awkward atop others, slashes across his chest and face, ruby red shining on the smooth skin.

“Don’t speak. He made his choice,” Anatolie said in a hoarse voice. He drew his wand and, in a quick movement, sliced open his palm. He pressed it against his brother’s and held tight, their blood mingling as he whispered, “Frate.”

Viktor stood, a reassuring and patient statue behind Anatolie, as the man rested his forehead against Dimitry’s speckled brow and sat, unmoving. It was a long while before Anatolie stood and recommended, “Let us leave this place of death.”

Viktor nodded quickly, not at all regretting abandoning the graveyard. He stared out over the death and decay and repressed a shiver. Anatolie watched him with a sharp gaze. “You are thinking of him. Your puiule,” he said after a slight pause.

Viktor refused to acknowledge as much and only reprimanded, “Do not call him that. He is not a child.”

Anatolie moved swiftly, locking Viktor’s arms in place as he pressed his mouth to the taller man’s, his lips and teeth brutal as they tried to subjugate Viktor’s and the thrust of his tongue vicious as it pushed between his lips.

It was nothing like Draco’s mouth against his.

It was almost as if Anatolie was trying to impress his dominance over him, the romantic gesture turned into nothing more than a testament of his submission. Viktor pushed him away furiously. In that moment, he hated Anatolie. _Hated_ him.

He had taken the cellular memory of Draco’s mouth from him and that could never be forgiven.

“Ana—” he started with belligerence, his eyes flashing with ire.

Anatolie was breathing hard, the fire in his gaze rivaled only by Viktor’s. “He is not like us either, frate,” he spat out petulantly. “You’d do well to remember it.”

Viktor’s lip raised as he stared down on Anatolie hatefully and stated unrepentantly, “I vill never be your brother, Anatolie.”

Anatolie said nothing but his position spoke only of defeat as he slumped in on himself. “I do not blame you,” he admitted desolately as he stole a pain-filled glance at Dimitry. “It seems as if the word causes death to mine.”

Viktor’s mind flashed back to a twilight night on the Quidditch pitch, a drunken Anatolie, mordant and self-destructive, rattling off the endless list of the flaws of five-year olds. Finally he had hiccupped, nearing the end, and said, ‘Can’t look after themselves either. Look at my f-fuckin’ brother, Razvan, I take my eyes off him for five minutes and he drowns in the bath. M-my mother still can’t look at me.’

Viktor took a step towards him, sorrowful and apologetic for his harsh rejection. “Anatolie,” he tried quietly.

But Anatolie only shook his head, his gaze remorseful. “You’ve made your choice, Viktor,” he said tiredly as he closed his eyes and Disapparated.

Viktor glared at the spot with resentment. At least he could get the fuck out of Slovenia, his paragon of decay where only death bloomed.

* * *

Viktor was holed up in a dingy, one-storey apartment in Romania when the dam of silence burst and it was shouted from the very rooftops that the war was over. Harry Potter was victorious and He Who Must Not Be Named was vanquished.

Viktor had smiled in relief and thought of his blond boy for the first time in three years without a horrendous weight pushing down on his heart, his only concern when they could finally see one another.

Over the next few weeks, the _Daily Prophet_ offered him a perfect, albeit morbid, opportunity. The man who had met him in Wiltshire and warned him off Draco had been a casualty.

Viktor penned a quick but sincere note to Draco, hope ballooning in him for the first time since he’d left Hogwarts.

   
_I am sorry for your teacher._

_Viktor_

  
Draco’s response was curt and all but the valediction could be written off entirely, however Viktor could feel how candid those few words were.

  
_Thank you for your concern. The funeral is in three days. A public wake will follow afterward at the manor. I hope you are able to attend._

_It is good to see you are still the same man._

_Regards,  
Draco_

  
Viktor Portkeyed to Wiltshire in his nicest robes, hoping he wasn’t too early.

His nervousness knew no bounds as he was let into the Manor by a posh house-elf and shown into the foyer where he was met with an austere woman who could only be Draco’s mother. She eyed him carefully before leading him into the main hall without a word. There were a fair few amount of people milling about, speaking in hushed voices and looking about with dour expressions.

Viktor’s heart leapt in anticipation as his eyes bounced around the room keenly.

“I understand that, Father, but I don’t think—” a well-bred voice was saying as it entered through double doors from what looked to be a portico outside.

Viktor’s breath caught as Draco Malfoy entered the room, nothing and everything like the boy he remembered, though he would have to amend his thinking on that last bit as this was no longer a boy, but a man. A man dressed in form-fitting simple robes that looked like elegance personified on him and likely pig slop on anyone else. His hair was just as blond, just as bright, and just as eye-catching.

However, it was shorter now and spoke of gravity rather than freedom. The grey eyes were the same shade, the same depth, but more solemn and serious now than he had ever seen them. Draco had grown up and become an adult in his absence and that was both wondrous and terrifying in the same moment.

An older, soberer version of Draco cut their conversation short with a few whispered words and Draco nodded his head after a moment and turned away, his eyes landing on Viktor.

Viktor could barely contain his exhilaration as he hurried over to his side, smiling wide. Draco smiled back in amusement and said quietly when Viktor had joined him, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Viktor spooked a bit in surprise and delight, admitting, “I’m surprised to hear you say.” He watched the other guests for a moment before he added seriously, “I came only for you.”

Draco turned to look at him critically, his face shapelier and more angled, giving him a more studious and reflective air. One that Viktor liked immensely. He reached out and pressed his fingertips to the sleeve of Viktor’s robe. “I know.”

* * *

“So, vot did you think?” Viktor asked, breathless and desperate for Draco’s approval, the fluttering and struggling snitch still beating its wings against his fingertips.

“You flew superbly,” Draco flattered him with a smile. He smirked a bit and twirled a finger in Viktor’s sweaty hair. “And are aptly named today, I see. ‘Victory,’ you indeed claimed it.”

Viktor offered him a winded grin. “I vanted to impress you,” he told him truthfully. “I am glad you came.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Draco responded politely as his friend, who had been waiting a tactful distance away, was chatted up by some of Viktor’s teammates. He had apparently been right about the image the girl’s legs conjured. “The match was wonderful.”

Viktor could barely hold himself still. They had been apart for _so_ long and all the visits they had managed since he’d moved to England had never been private. He pulled Draco to his chest and Viktor pressed his nose against his temple. “I haff missed you,” he whispered, dangerously close to whining while he inhaled the scent of Draco’s shampoo deeply – vanilla and gardenia. He pressed his lips to Draco’s hair and groaned, “The memory of you has kept me from the cold, but it leaves no lingering vormth. Not like your touch.”

Draco pressed gently but firmly against his chest and started remorsefully, “Viktor, I—”

Viktor pulled back and saw his eyes were focused elsewhere, at something out on the field. He watched with dull fury and overwhelming pain as Potter’s team landed on the pitch. His eyes filled with an unbearable ache as he accused, “You do not vant him to see? It is fine for me to kiss you as long as the man you truly vant isn’t vatching?”

His breath was coming in short pants and he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. “I defeated him, I offer you the snitch, not him,” he strangled out, squeezing the golden ball tighter in his grip and shaking it in Draco’s direction. His voice was warbling and lost. “I am better than him,” he said, pointing up at the triumphant, flashing score.

  
**Vultures** : _270_    **Cannons** : _140_

  
Draco said nothing and Viktor grabbed Draco’s limp hand in his own warm palm. “You know I vos a champion too, so vy do you insist on seeing him as the only one?”

Draco looked away, answerless. Viktor’s eyes watered but he refused to offer such blatant evidence of his pain, he was not about to put on a show for this boy who felt nothing for him. “He is your champion,” he whispered desolately, dropping Draco’s hand. “I vill always lose in this competition. The only one I haff ever truly vanted to vin.”

Draco bit his lip, jerking his head towards the pitch. “He doesn’t want me,” he languished in a crestfallen tone. “It’s her. It’ll always be her.”

Viktor watched as the Potter boy embraced an attractive redheaded witch with a grin. What did it matter if Draco’s desired lover was taken? He was still Draco’s desired lover. Viktor hung his head and backed away, with each step his stomach dropping a little more. “I vill not be your second best,” he determined with shaking limbs. “Somehow I haff fallen in luff vith you. I vill not allow you to make a mockery of it.”

Draco’s eyes were dispassionate as he placed a hand on Viktor’s sallow cheek. “Good,” he stated blankly. “I’ve never wanted to hurt you but I would if you let me. Don’t let me ruin you, Viktor,” he implored, his gaze growing concerned and uncertain. “You are a good man and you deserve far better than me.”

* * *

By all rights, that should have been the last of it. Draco had suggested many outs when the invitation had appeared in his dining room as he ate dinner, staring morosely at the empty chair opposite him. His mother had insisted upon it, he had said in his letter, when she had dreamt up this ridiculous event. She refused to let public opinion or Ministry denigration rule her and accordingly she had organized an affair of epic proportions, inviting any persons whom had even the slightest bit of clout. Which included Viktor.

Draco had offered to make Viktor’s excuses to his mother, anything to minimize their interaction, anything to put Viktor at his complete and total ease. And Viktor had blown all their polite standoffishness out of the water when he had written his terse and succinct reply that Draco could expect him at seven o’clock on the dot on the evening of the twenty-fourth.

And while he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t regret that note and its implications in their entirety, he had missed Draco entirely too much to care. Upon arriving, however, the very first thing he encountered was a Draco that was staring at Harry Potter so intently from across the room that he was surprised the other boy hadn’t caught fire.

He immediately veered off course, headed up the stairs, and looked for a bathroom in which to vomit and subsequently splash cold water on his face. He stumbled into the first unlocked door he found; realizing that not only was this room not a bathroom but it was also not empty. He recognized the silhouette of Draco’s father against the windowpane and tried to back out of the room without being noticed.

Malfoy, Sr., on the other hand, rounded on him almost instantly. Viktor cursed his bad luck and said gruffly, “I am sorry, I did not know anyvone—”

Lucius Malfoy eyed him speculatively and cut him off with a concise and inarguable, “I have seen the way you look at my son.” Viktor froze. Malfoy, Sr., gave him an easy once over and said in a quasi-approving tone, “You could be good for him.”

Viktor fought the urge to pinch himself and only said curtly the words that still cut at him, “It is not me he vants.”

Mr. Malfoy did not seem surprised by this in the least. He only picked up his drink from the windowsill and swirled the amber liquid restively, the ice clinking against the glass as he nodded into its depths. “My son has always wanted what he can’t have. Harry Potter chief among those wants.” Viktor hated this conversation, despised these words, and vainly wished he had chosen any other door on the landing.

Lucius Malfoy pinned him like a butterfly to cardboard. “Harry Potter, however, is presently the savior of the wizarding world, beyond even Draco’s antagonism let alone his affections.” Viktor scowled and Mr. Malfoy clarified, “He is the Golden Boy and, even if his desires did run as dark as my son has always hoped, he is a Gryffindor through and through and he would _never_ give in to them.” His next words were sly and held a wicked tint. “You would have Draco’s heart if you but chose to take it.”

“Not all,” Viktor appended.

Lucius Malfoy offered him a silky smile. “Do you really need all of it?” he intoned curiously. “Isn’t it enough to know that you would be his only, that you would be the only man to ever touch him in the way you intend?” Viktor’s brow furrowed as he pondered the implications of Malfoy, Sr.’s, words. Surely Draco couldn’t still be… untouched?

Viktor shook his thoughts away, even if Draco was, Viktor was still not the one he wanted. And even if he could convince him – well, Potter’s specter would never leave them, would it? “I see what you are thinking, Draco would leave you for _him_?”

Viktor started in surprise and admitted, “Yes.”

“It will never come up,” Malfoy stated with absolute certainty.

Viktor balked. “You cannot know—”

“I can,” Mr. Malfoy interrupted. “Potter will marry the Weasley chit and he will spend the rest of his life with her and not think of my son once while he enjoys his domestic bliss.” Lucius Malfoy’s eyes grew tired. “Draco will be forgotten, erased from his mind, in a month’s time.” Viktor remained unconvinced and Mr. Malfoy implored, “If you want insurance then move him to Bulgaria with you, take him away from here, make him forget. Keep him from throwing his life away on a boy who has never deserved his regard.”

“You vant me to run off vith him?” Viktor asked in disbelief.

Malfoy’s face aged ten years in the span of only a few moments and his features took on a heartfelt anguish. “You can make him happy. That is all I want for my son. He will wallow in his misery if he stays here, pining after Potter, and I have caused him enough misery for this and many other lifetimes. My actions, my choices – I have put him through more pain than anyone deserves.” He looked as if this fact caused him physical agony. “I will do all I can to make that up to my son,” he said with sincerity.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy’s words buzzed in his brain, refusing to be ignored, as he descended the stairs. He spotted Draco standing in a corner, nursing his drink, and burning a hole in Potter’s back as the carefree man tightened his arm around his girlfriend’s waist. He sidled up to Draco and questioned in a quiet and unassuming voice, “Is he still the man you see in your dreams?”

“Eternally,” Draco answered without pause or shifting his gaze, no varnished truth or whispered shame in it.

Viktor closed his eyes and said with his lips brushing Draco’s ear, “I love you.” Not a trace of his accent coloring the intonation. He had practiced saying it over and over, knowing if he ever found the courage to speak the words again he did not want his pronunciation to embarrass him or make the declaration sound foolish or mangled. He wanted it to be perfect.

Unable to hold back any longer, he peppered kisses against the shell of Draco’s ear down to his earlobe, lingering longer and pressing fuller desperate busses to his skin.

He broke off as Draco turned to him and acknowledged with gravitas, “I know.” The franticness of Viktor’s gaze must have conveyed his desires because Draco’s eyes widened in surprise. Viktor was indeed throwing caution to the wind, Draco’s circumstances no longer enough to waylay his need.

Draco held his gaze for a moment and, in the interest of full disclosure, informed him, “I’ll lay waste to you. I’ll make you bitter, make you despise me, make you ache, make you lose yourself within me. You will never have all of me. I won’t warn you again.”

Viktor swallowed painfully. “I haff already suffered each plague you mention. I deserve my light in the dark,” he said quietly. “Even if it is artificial.” He grabbed Draco around the waist and pulled him close. “It still brings me vormth in the cold.”

He trembled as he finally brought his lips to Draco’s, though whether it was from the action or his fate, he honestly couldn’t say.


End file.
